


Gunpoint

by doodnoice



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Amputation, Angst, Blood and Gore, Death, Explicit Language, F/M, Female Reader, Gore, Graphic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Reader-Insert, Reference/Implications of Religious Lore, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-04 15:04:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10281731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doodnoice/pseuds/doodnoice
Summary: In an experiment gone wrong, you're the last surviving test subject of which Talon means to reacquire and terminate. Upon finding you and assessing your abilities, however, Talon agrees to reinstate you as a temporary tool to further their goals in return for your freedom.Due to the reemergence of Overwatch and the obvious connections that many of their operatives have, your job is to review their most acclaimed associates and ensure their loyalties remain concurrent with Talon's objectives. Among those being reviewed is Reaper, a man of little words and even shorter patience, which, in turn, makes your job harder.-Reaper/Readerdiscont. potential remake in the works





	1. When it's Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edited 04/29

You were not a good person, that much was obvious. You were, however, raised in a good family among good people. You didn't deserve them and they sure as hell didn't deserve the shit you put them through, but they were good people, and good people always did what was right-- _just and fair_ , a phrase your parents preached well to you and your younger brother back when you were both children.

" _Good things happen to good people,"_ they'd assure you whenever you were brought back home by a neighborhood cop cashing in on a favor he owed your father, " _You have the choice in life to be a good person or a bad person,"_  your father would say, while your mother held your hand, not mad that you had skipped class to do drugs in the parking lot with men ten years your senior, just... disappointed, which you somehow hated worse than when she was actually mad at you. " _You have a choice,"_ your father would say, and you'd pretend you weren't listening, but you were, you couldn't help it. Your father had a voice like a preacher, especially when he'd look at you with those eyes that made you feel like you couldn't do anything wrong, even though you could and you usually did, but the point was he made you feel like you couldn't when he said, _"We see goodness in you."_

Of course, at the time, being a stupid, knuckle-headed teenager, you would just scoff and pretend you didn't care, that your stomach wasn't twisting in knots, because you _were_ a bad person. There was no denying that. You were a fuck up, a liar, a thief, a nobody. You knew it. The school you were expelled from knew it. The neighbors knew it. Hell, the entire damned town seemed just as aware of it as everything else "odd" and "unbecoming" to their quaint little neighborhood. So, your parents, an intelligent, successful pair--a doctor with an unending love of life, and a top-tier investigator with a heart of gold, and uncanny eye for righteousness--those two, out of everyone you were surrounded by, had to have known it. Known you were bad, maybe even worse than bad, but definitely not good... Right?

Sometimes you laughed. Goodness. Just. Fair. Those were all just words. Words that would scar you, words you'd wake up to in a cold sweat, because you were none of them and your parents would be so damn disappointed if they were looking down at you from whatever warm, cloudy, bright place they were in now, but all of that--the goodness, just and fair--they were all just words, and you were still just a bad person.

Good things don't always happen to good people, your parents were prime examples of how badly life can shit on you, your younger brother, a byproduct of life's most unforgiving shit, would have been able to live with you after your parents died, but you were a bad person, and as such, unfit to raise him. So, he was pushed into the foster care system where you'd never quite hold out hope of seeing him again. Goodness, just, and fair were just words. And bad things happened to good people. And maybe you would have called your parents liars if you had believed in any of it, believed that life wasn't as much of a bitch as everyone made her out to be, but you didn't believe it. Just like you didn't deserve them, and they sure as fuck didn't deserve to die mangled up and barely recognizable, like meaty strings of paste overworked by a grinder to the point that, if you had had an open casket funeral, all that would have been lying among the satin blue pillows would have been a jar of what closely resembled canned beef.

No. The only reason you still tolerated life was because just like bad things happened to good people, even worse things happened to bad people. And you, a bad person with no reason or cause, were the scum of the earth, and deserved every bit of pain life and her piece of shit humor hurled at you.

That's why you didn't question it when you were approached one day in an underground bar full of cutthroat mercenaries, and were offered a position in a worldwide terrorist organization. The recruiter, grade-a jackass with one of those toothy salesman grins you kind of just wanted to punch--not because he was a jackass, but because his face was just so damn punchable--, didn't have to do much recruiting when he came to you. You just up and left with him from that bar, you and a few other mercs with nothing else better to do, and melded into the ranks of Talon.

And for a while, you were good--not as a person, but at what you were doing. The killing, the secret hush-hush operations where you had to take down six highly trained government guards solo in under a minute, because one of the eggheads fucked up and didn't disable the alarm quick enough before you got in. You were good, better than good; you were phenomenal. 

So, again, you didn't question it when you were called into the doctor's to "update" your medical history. Talon was thorough. You figured since you were going to move up in rank, because of course you were going to move up in rank for the impossible shit you pulled off during your missions, that they needed your medical history for reasons you, at the time, didn't care enough to think about.

Once more, you didn't question when all they did was draw your blood, when the doctor analyzed it, then drew your blood and analyzed it, again. You didn't question the look on his face when he turned to stare at you, when he pulled one of his assistants to the side and whispered something in their ear before going right back to staring at you. " _Good genes,"_ was all you said, a cheeky little smile spreading your lips, because you were trying to alleviate this _bad_ feeling in your stomach and he was still staring at you, but now he was smiling and it wasn't a good smile.

All teeth, lips thinned and turned upwards in a way that would suggest it might actually be physically painful for this man to smile, but he was doing it anyway and it was making you, a skilled soon-to-be ranking Talon agent who has killed men more threatening than this guy, uncomfortable.

Then the guards came in, several, in fact, dressed up like they were getting ready to go toe-to-toe with a Mech and you didn't have enough time to question it, because, before you could stand up, the doctor had moved to your side and injected you with something that made talking, let alone moving, very, very difficult.

Your world swam and the light became just a touch too bright, but it was all just part of the linear scheme of things, really. What did you expect? You were a bad person, and as you learned before when you were just a bit too young and rebellious to take care of your kid brother, but just old enough to land yourself without a job and drowning in debt to keep your parents' place afloat... bad things happened to bad people, and life was almost definitely a cruel, cruel bitch.

Most people, when dealt a deck so obviously stacked up against them, would just tell life to suck a fat one. They'd just up and take a bite out of that bitch and fight back, but most people were never subject to the world's most effective terrorist organization's secret experiments.

Most people got into car accidents. Most people lost their jobs. Some people, the very few unlucky ones who have a kid with a cute smile and talent for art and another with a stupid brain and a kink for rebelling against authority, those people go on romantic picnics at the edge of the wilderness the day of their anniversary and lay a blanket on the ground. Those people, good people who deserved better, then sit on said blanket together not knowing that just beneath the very soft, pliable ground is an active mine leftover from the Omnic Crisis that was meant to take down giant Omnics. Not humans with their tiny, squishy bodies. _Omnics._ But, the mine didn't know that.

Over the span of ten years, you become known as subject #7 of ten and dwindling. After you were forced into an experiment you heard that doctor, the one who tested your blood, the one who smiled crookedly and drugged you, you heard that bastard Doctor Damiano call his sick little experiment Project Hourglass, you were sure it meant you were going to die.

Hourglass, like the sands of time or whatever else philosophical bullshit you were sure he came up with just to scare you and the other test subjects. It was a pun, really, that time was running out for you. That's why he smiled when he beat you, when he injected you with drugs to make you loopy. He was laughing at you, and life was right there with him.

Ten years you spent, overall, before Talon shut Project Hourglass down. Seven of those ten were spent alone, in a cramped, dark room with one bed (no blankets) and two buckets. The other three, when you can only assume Talon began downsizing and the amount of subjects had fallen to an exact three, you shared that small, dark, and cramped room with one bed, upgraded with now two scratchy blankets, but still with only two buckets, between you and two perfect strangers.

Mina was the first Damiano threw into your room. Subject #3. She was tall, lanky, but you're not sure if the lankiness came from the drugs he forced her to test or from the lack of food, but she was skinny and bruised, but still managed to pretend to be pleased when she first saw you. Over time, you learned about each other, between the beatings and the tests and the sick little "games" the Good Doctor Damiano would force you to play when Mina was being tested or vice-versa. You became friends with her. She was smart, pretty, loved to cook and had a little boy she had been trying to keep fed when she joined up with Talon. She didn't like talking, didn't like men, hell, she didn't like most people, but she admitted to liking you, even if you talked too much.

After a few weeks with just you and your forced best friend, but best friend nonetheless, Mina, Damiano threw in Aasim, Subject #9, who was bruised, bloody, and battered, and who tumbled into your little room with the blankets and the buckets without a single word. But between the experimentation, the fucked up games, and the unending pain, you fell in love with him. Aasim was handsome, more handsome than any man you've ever met in your short, short life. Even though he was more often than not injured, face swollen or otherwise gaunt and discolored, you thought he was the most beautiful person you've ever laid eyes on. He was kind, soft spoken, but with a deep, strong voice that made your heart skip a beat whenever he whispered loving things into the tattered cloth of your shirt collar, because he loved you, too.

You found him and her, your soulmate and your best friend, the only good things left in your sad, pathetic, and increasingly short life, in a terrorist sponsored facility in fuck knows-ville where you shared a tiny room with one bed, two blankets, and two buckets, but somehow found a semblance of peace in knowing you'll die with the people you love, who love you back.

But, in true "fuck you" fashion, life couldn't let you be happy. Couldn't even let you be the first to go. You were a bad person, and when life can't get at you bad enough, she gets at the next best thing.

The first to go was Mina. The sick bastard, Damiano, with his stupid smile and his beady little rat eyes came into your dark room one day with a thin steel can, as thin as a pencil, with three even thinner sticks sticking out at the top. And he was smiling, grinning ear to ear in a way even the Cheshire Cat would find disturbing.

_"Pick one."_ was all he said, and when none of you moved, his face dropped and he went to pull out the taser he kept on his belt at all times, before you were all sent scrambling to obey his stupid fucking order. You had to peel yourself away from Aasim, who you'd been laying on at the time, just to play into Doctor Dumbass's ridiculous little game.

One by one, you each pulled a straw, yours the longest, Aasim's the second longest, and Mina's the shortest. It didn't take a genius to figure out what Damiano was playing at. Mina looked at you and Aasim with worry in her eyes, but she tried to hide it when the Good Doctor let out a sniveling laugh, and grabbed Mina by her arm, ushering her out of the room.

You reached for her, screaming her name, because you knew something was wrong. It was in the way the Doctor showed up, just a bit more unhinged than usual, grinning, and the air was too warm, too stifling and thick. When Mina grabbed your hand back, she spoke calmly, like a mother to her child, but you could tell she was terrified, too.

_"I'm going to come back,"_ she said, ignoring the way that asshole Damiano tried to pull her from your grasp, _"You, me, and Aasim are going to do that thing we promised. I'm going to come back."_

The thing you all promised was to get out of the facility. You three had made a plan and everything, and sure it may have been impossible--none of you knew where you were, how many guards were out there, or how you'd even get out--but all you were waiting for was the right time to strike. Maybe you wouldn't have made it three feet before some turret shot you down, or maybe you would have tried to get out and found yourselves surrounded by guards or Mechs or whatever else could kill you without a second thought. But, it was the belief, the hope that everything would be alright that kept you three alive.

Damiano shoved you away and closed the door just before you were able to drag Mina back in where it was cramped, and dark, but a hell of a lot safer than anywhere Damiano was. But you missed your chance and like that, Mina was gone.

For hours, you cried into Aasim's shirt, and he held you, rubbing your back and assuring you that he loves you and that he'll never let anything happen to you, but his reassurance only made you cry harder. It didn't take long for you to stop hoping that Mina was coming back. So you just held onto Aasim and prayed that some great big miracle would save you both and you'd be able to escape and get married and live happily where the sun always shines and no one can hurt you.

But, all too soon the Good fucking Doctor came back with the same tin of sticks and shit-eating smile, and you knew your hope would never be answered.

You looked at Aasim who looked at you with an obscene calmness in his eyes, something you hadn't seen before, only imagined when you fantasized about lying in a field at the edge of the wilderness, hand-in-hand with him, your soulmate, sharing, of all things, a can of potato chips, because Aasim loved them so much and you just wanted to make him happy, and they were the only other thing he talked about when he wasn't peppering you with kisses and telling you how much he loved you.

But, in this place, where it's dark and that mad scientist Damiano is forcing you to pull sticks to see who dies first, Aasim's serenity sets off warning bells in your head. Walking towards Damiano, Aasim goes to reach for the sticks, but instead clocks Damiano in the jaw. But, Aasim's weak from the drugs and the lack of sunlight and food and the Doctor is quick to subdue him, yanking his taser from his belt and zapping Aasim with it, once, twice before he's knocked down and Doctor Dickass kicks Aasim in the chest where something cracks and Aasim struggles for a moment then goes limp. You scream and throw yourself at Damiano, but you're weak, too; from malnutrition, from the fucked up little games, so Damiano bats you away with ease.

Still, you crawl over to Aasim and cover his body with yours, ignoring the way Damiano claws at your back and kicks at you, breaking something, probably several somethings, but you don't care, because you're trying to protect Aasim even though you can't feel his heart beat, and because life's not fair or just, and you just can't just bite and rip a chunk out of life even though she's laughing at you. You're a horrible person. All you ever did was fuck up. You failed out of high school, and you got arrested, you did drugs with men ten years your senior, and still your parents loved you. All they did wrong was love you.

When Damiano finally got tired of beating at you, you couldn't recall, but he's gone and the door's locked by the time you take the time to look around. So, you go back to holding Aasim and crying into his terribly still and quiet chest wondering _why, oh god why_? Why did you have to be such a bad person--bad at family, bad at friends, bad at everything--, but all you got was silence.


	2. The Wait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *NOTICE* This chapter contains depictions of violence and gore and contemplations of suicide; if you're sensitive to descriptions of death, amputation, forced drug-use, or other similar violent acts, read with caution or DO NOT READ.
> 
> edited 04/29

 

The wait for your turn couldn't have ended sooner. You had just finished wrapping Aasim in the only blankets in the room before hefting him up onto the mattress where it was high and safe and where the rats couldn't get to him. And even though he was twice your size and weight despite his own starvation, you struggled through it and made sure he was lain in a respectful manner. Afterwards, you sat at the foot of the bed, leaned tiredly against its wire frame and stared at the wall thinking, wistfully, about how happy you'd be if you died--how, if what your parents told you when you were younger was true, that you'd meet them and Mina and Aasim in some great big afterlife.

If it was true, you'd like to introduce them. Your best friend, Mina, and the love of your life, Aasim, would get to meet your parents and your parents would be thrilled. You liked to think that, if it hadn't been for your parents' deaths and all the other events that landed you as a guinea pig for a terrorist organization, that if, under different circumstances, you met Mina and you and Aasim still somehow fell so desperately in love, that your parents would have liked them.

You're so caught up in these thoughts, grinning stupidly just like you would have had it been real, that you don't notice Damiano as he enters the cramped little room and grabs your dominant arm, shaking you. You giggle, not hearing what he says even as he pulls out what appears to be an almost comically large butcher's knife and presses the palm of your dominant hand down, spreads your fingers out and wide, and lines the knife up to the base of your pinky finger just above the web. 

_Chop._

You hiss, but otherwise don't react--don't scream. Not that you can't feel it. Of course you can; the aching burn, the distinct "not-there" sensation where your pinky once was and where it is now, lying detached and useless. You can see the blood as it gushes, but you don't have it in you to care. Everything feels so distant. So, you focus on the very near future, past your death, where you see your parents again and can finally apologize for being such a shitty daughter.

They'd laugh, tell you it's alright, and hug you and then Mina and Aasim would be there and everything would really be alright. From where you are, death, but happy, you'd be able to look down and see your little brother, wherever he is, and see that the system did him well, because he's doing great, and he's not so little anymore, and he's attending some fancy arts college where he meets the love of his life in a quaint little coffee shop instead of a dark, cold room where they test and torture people for god knows what reason.

Damiano grabs your face, thumb and forefinger digging into the soft flesh of your cheeks. He looks... angry. Frustrated. Reminiscent of the times he dragged you out of the dark room to torture and prod at you, but you refused to scream for him. If you weren't already ready to die, you wonder if you would be screaming, now. But, you suppose that line of thought is useless. You know you're going to die, so why waste your time? Besides, with that stupid twisted frown on his face, brow sweaty and hair clinging matted and greasy to his forehead, you're more amused than afraid.

He looks absolutely fucking miserable. _Good._ Is all your mind can supply, as a small, rippling smile presses your lips closed. Damiano says something you can't hear and releases your chin roughly. Your head feels heavy. You look down and, again, Damiano lines his knife up, this time with your left ring finger, and reels it back and down.

_Chop._

You cringe that time, mostly because whatever form of shock you had been riding through had waned, and you're starting to feel everything more clearly. You groan, fog clearing from your head as white hot pain streaks up your hand from the spurting stubs at your hand. You wheeze, breath catching in your throat as you're forced to endure just this last little bit of life and her bullshit before you die. Just a little while longer, and then it'll be over. Just a few more minutes.

_"Good, good... I want you coherent for this last test, and we haven't got much time."_ Dickhead Damiano says, reaching into the mess of his lab coat to pull out a syringe that bubbled black like tar between his nubby little fingers--not that you had much to boast about now what with the raw and sore stubs on your hand and all.

Pulling your head to the side to expose your pulse, Damiano uncaps the syringe, feels for the steady beat just beneath your jaw, and stabs you there, squeezing the syringe empty. You gurgle, blood pooling in your throat, filling your mouth with a sickly warm and thick coppery taste while your hands reach up, slick and still streaming blood, to grip his lab coat. You claw at his face with your bloodied hand, sort of because you're scared and your vision is dimming, but mostly because that fucking hurt and when you die you don't want his dumb face anywhere you can see it.

You shake, body convulsing as the worst possible pain you can imagine spreads through you, as if every nerve in your body is on fire. The pain knocks the breath out of you, like a bucket of cold water suddenly being poured down your neck. You gawp, eyes wide as they roll back into your head. You can't breathe. Fuck, you can't _breathe_. And you're practically unseeing, but your body still reacts, legs twitching and arms going numb and tired, muscles tightening and untightening all at once.

As you die, your vision comes and goes like the slow motion shutter of a camera lens. You blink, you're on the ground looking up at the solid concrete ceiling, something rumbles above it and small pieces of rubble fall on your face. You blink and Damiano has your injured dominant hand pinned beneath his knee, as he holds that blood stained butcher's knife up in the air and slices down, whacking off your middle finger. There's something you find particularly hilarious and sad about that, because you'd really like to tell him he can finally go fuck himself with it, but your tongue is heavy and your mouth is full of blood that you can't swallow or spit out because your throat is closed and your jaw won't move, so you just smile as best you can and hope he gets it. You blink, one last time, and see nothing but darkness, so you close your eyes again and have to force yourself to keep them closed until you feel yourself moving. When you open them, all you can see is a bright blinding white light that burns the longer you stare, so you close your eyes one more time, but bask in the glory of your newfound freedom. You're finally dead.

You feel wind, fresh air, and sun, and for a few blessed moments, you think that your parents were right, and you want to cry, because you're going to see them--your mom, your dad, Mina and Aasim--, all of them are going to be there and they're going to be waiting for you, because they love you, and you love them, and sometimes life is good to bad people, and you don't have to worry anymore.

You're happy. You're finally happy. So, you keep your eyes closed and let the light take you.

A few moments pass where nothing happens, so you open your eyes only to find that the light is gone, and so is the warmth and the sun, and the fresh air. All you feel now is an unnerving chill, and nothing else. Then, suddenly, you feel yourself, your body--your limbs, your torso, the quieting pulse of your dominant hand's middle finger, and then the burn of something thick and rough around your wrists and your ankles. You feel yourself being turned over, face pressed into cold hard concrete while clammy, wet hands tug and pull, making, what you can only assume is rope, impossibly tighter. You're turned over onto your back. 

You smell dust. You smell sweat. The lingering aftertaste of blood tinges your taste buds. And everything is dark, so dark, and then the cloth around your eyes is lifted and you have to blink them clear to focus your vision only to find yourself staring up at that awful, inhuman smile Doctor Damiano is so good at. At first, you think you're in hell, but then you see the dim light of the moon coming in from a small window in what looks to be a storage facility, and realize, with horror, that you didn't die.

"What the fuck?" you say, more to yourself than to Damiano, because you're pissed, because you're decidedly not dead, but instead lying on the floor of a wide open warehouse surrounded by boxes and Dickhead Damiano, and nothing else, "What the fuck?!" You scream, but now you're kicking _and_ screaming, although it's more like squirming, since the ropes are tight and this jackass who just can't seem to take a hint and either die or kill you is already standing over you with this anxious grin, dripping sweat and smelling like a wet dog if a wet dog was a piece of shit in glasses and a dingy lab coat.

"It worked, #7!" he laughs, giddy, and you feel your stomach turn, "It worked! Aren't you happy?!"

You frown, what the fuck is this asshole talking about? Not that you really care. After all, you should be dead. You were ready to die--raring to die. What the fuck happened to that?

Seeing your confusion, and no doubt your rage, Damiano flips you over and grabs your hand, specifically your once absent middle finger, and laughs, "It grew back! I'm sure you're more than happy to have it back." he states, as if he knows what joke you threw at him when he had chopped it off the first time. He sighs, fingers skimming past where your pinky and ring fingers should be, forcing you to shudder at the strange sensation of the lack of feeling, before he settles on stroking the nubs gently, "I truly am sorry about these, however. It seems the serum is only able to regenerate what you had on you at the time... But you must understand, they were controlled tests; I made mistakes in the past, and I had to make sure I got this one right."

You grunt when he turns you back over, onto your back where you're staring up at him and he's grinning down at you and you're thinking up seventeen different ways to creatively and brutally murder him with your hands tied behind your back. Then, his eyes wander down to your bust, and that murder list gets bumped up to a good twenty-five.

Damiano leans down, pinning your legs beneath his while one hand supports him above you and the other smooths down your arm. You're reminded, briefly, of Aasim, but brush that thought aside, fearing it'll be tainted with memories of this lunatic instead, "You always were my favorite, you know. My little pet project." He puts emphasis on the 'pet' part, and you have to physically stop yourself from projectile vomiting in his face--not that it takes much effort considering you can't remember the last time you've eaten, and you doubt you _could_ even puke if you wanted to. But he's so close and his breath smells like sour candy, and if you did and could puke it would just be deflected right back into your face and you'd much rather be covered in Damiano's blood than your own stomach acid. No, instead, you glare at the Good Doctor, waiting for the opportunity to implement at least three of those twenty-five murder methods in the least humane way possible.

Said Doctor only grins, thumb hooking under the crook of your shirt and pulling, exposing the skin there to rub at it affectionately, "Did you know the underground facility you were in for the last few years was only ever meant for five human test subjects at a time? Something about security risks and all that, but this project was a delicate one and I had to act fast, so I smuggled in five more, including you. Still, despite the overcrowding, I made sure to keep you, for as long as I could, in a room by yourself--the VIP treatment if you will. All for you."

Damiano smiles like you're supposed to be happy about what he says, supposed to feel good, tickled fucking pink, but you don't and you're not. He's a sick son of a bitch who tortured not only you, but your best friend and the love of your life for ten years before killing them, and then when it's finally your turn to go and you're ready for it--ready to go into the great fucking beyond and see your friends and family--he drugs you, keeps you alive, ties you up and lies you here on the ground of another cold and dark place and he has the nerve to look at you like you should be happy? If he was just an inch closer, you'd take a chunk out of his throat with your teeth.

"I have a fondness for art, an obsession really," Damiano says suddenly, moving the hand that had been molesting your arm to run through the gritty knots in your hair, not noticing, or, more likely, not caring when his knuckles catch in them and tug through, ripping the hair and prompting you to growl in both pain and contempt.

Ignoring the sound, Damiano continues, "When I saw you first come through Talon, I was blown away. You were beautiful, you were art. I had to have you. Keep you. Preserve you. After all, what is art if not something to be cherished for generations and generations ad infinitum? It would have been a crime to let artwork like you become disfigured by those dangerous Talon missions, or even worse, let you grow old and shriveled, riddled with liver spots." He makes a sound in the back of his throat as if to further express his next statement, "Disgusting."

"It just so happened that I already had some plans in the works when you showed up. They were nothing more than a few notes, really, that I found in some old files and decided to pursue. It was easy. All I needed was the funding and some test subjects with different blood types, and you just _happened_ to have the last blood type we deemed necessary to commit to the tests." Damiano sighs and rests his forehead against your own, looking deeply into your eyes as if in love, "I was worried, at first, that I wouldn't be able to have you, to save you from the awful decay of old age. Some of those higher up in the chain of command had been impressed with you, but for all the wrong reasons. They wanted to make you one of their drones, another inevitable casualty of an age old war, but I saved you. I mean, how awful would it have been to die in anonymity, deformed and discarded? Your beauty wasted like so many others before you."

You feel your blood curdle, your teeth grit, but you have to wait for the right time to kill him. To rip his jugular out with your teeth, head-butt him and then smash his skull in--anything. As long as he's dead by the end of his speech, you don't care what tissue or tendon you'll have to pick out of your teeth, you're going to make sure he stops breathing.

Damiano, seemingly none the wiser to your seething rage, smiles, "You're thankful. I can see it in your eyes, and I must say there is no thanks needed, my dear." You can't even muster up the thought to spit out a biting retort, all you can do is wait until he moves just a little bit higher and expose his neck. "Anyway, you are one of the luckiest people I know. Not only did I save you from a terribly boring life under Talon's thumb, wasting away as a puppet in their theater, but I was able to finish _our_  experiment, Project Hourglass, before Talon shut us down."

He pauses as if you're supposed to understand what the fuck he's talking about, let alone care, and he seems to catch on because he gives you this stupid fucking embarrassed smile like he's a schoolboy that just told his fourth grade crush that he liked them and they didn't hear him, so he now has to say it a touch louder,  "I-I'm sorry. You probably don't know what that is, do you? Project Hourglass, or should I say 'h _our_ glass', is what I injected into you a few days ago. A defining moment in medical history, assuming it works as its supposed to..." when you still don't say anything like you're assuming he's expecting, Damiano lets out a small chuckle and leans down to press a kiss to your cheek, "Immortality." he says, "I have gifted you immortality, my pet."

You hear something _"thump"_ as your stomach drops, and you're actually so stunned that, midway, while going for the vicious bite you were aiming at his neck, you stop, a cold, understanding washing over you, "Immortality..?" You whisper, throat thick, and you hope he's just exaggerating the truth, that he's lying to impress you, but Damiano grins in the way eggheads do when they think they've done something smart, and sits up. While you're still stunned, he stands and grasps your shoulders, pulling you up into a sitting position, and when he's satisfied you're not going to topple over, he pulls out a gun.

"Yes, my dear, immortality. You'll never have to worry about dying, or the wrinkles and scars of old age, because with the added effects of an increased regeneration rate, you're practically invincible!" Damiano points the gun at your shoulder and fires off a single round. Knocked back by the force, you can't even scream as searing pain spreads through your arm, blood dripping from the torn and fresh hole that deforms your shoulder. A short laugh bubbles up from Damiano's chest, "Of course, the pain is still there, and yes, the healing takes time depending on the severity of your wounds, but you won't _die_."

You grit your teeth, groaning and curling in on yourself as you feel the wound mend itself back together from the inside out; pulling and pinching like sticky webbing, and it feels like your arm is on fire, but then it stops burning and starts to throb, once or twice, before leaving behind a warmth that is more unnerving than it is pleasant. Damiano walks towards you until his shoes are by your face and he nudges your cheek with the tip of his scuffed dress shoes until you turn on your back. You feel him grab your shoulders and hoist you to your feet while that same crooked smile you hated spread his lips.

"You sick bastard." you snarl, wriggling out of his hold.

"You're welcome." Damiano grins, but then you hear a rhythmic set of _"thumps"_ , this time sounding vaguely closer, and you realize that it's coming from somewhere inside the building and approaching fast. Damiano hears it too, and sighs, hand going up to cup your cheek only to stop short when you viciously bite at him, "Ooh, fiesty. I like that, but I can't play right now, little pet. Clock's a ticking, and unlike you, I don't have immortality to rely on."

And because he's so close, and because you can feel the ropes tied around you loosening, you grin, "Good."

You slam your forehead against Damiano's, catching him off guard and sending him sprawling backwards onto the ground. From there, you pounce on him, knees hitting the floor between his legs, bruising, but you don't stop, because you can already feel the healing warmth spread through them, and you're too busy lying on Damiano, anyway, biting through the cloth of his dress shirt and into his flesh as you try to simultaneously wiggle your way up his body and cause as much damage to him as you possibly can until you can finally reach up to the delicate column of his neck and chew him a new artery. 

Unfortunately for you, Damiano has the strict advantage of being untied and shoots through your shoulder, a feeling you weren't quite used to the first time he did it, and kicks you off of him while you're stunned and screaming in pain.

"I'm not sorry about that," he snaps, as if that's his best insult, and stands, backing away and gripping the bite wound you inflicted on his stomach. Lifting a blood coated hand up to where he can see it, Damiano laughs breathlessly and adjusts his glasses, "You always were a fighter... heh, that's why I liked you best." 

When your wounds are finished healing, bits of energy reinforced bullet falling from your back and onto the smooth concrete with metallic _"plink"_ s you shakily get to your feet, the rope loosening around your wrists and ankles from your previous wiggling. You should have known Doctor Dumbass didn't know how to tie a proper knot. Soon enough, you'll be able to get out of the ropes and thoroughly maim that son of a bitch with your bare hands.

More thumps resound from behind you, behind the door of the dark warehouse area you were in, so close that you can discern what they are: footsteps. A group of people, who you could only assume were Talon operatives, were coming to kill you.

The sound of a gun sliding towards you on the ground brings your attention back to Damiano who is now about ten feet away from you and opening a second door, hand still clutching the place where you tried to rip out his flesh, but now, he's smiling, "They're coming to terminate my contract... and probably execute you, too, but you're a resourceful little pet, huh?" You squirm, furiously, pulling and rolling your body until the ropes loosen on both your ankles and wrists and you're able to rip them off and dive for the gun, "Make me proud."

You shoot at Damiano just as he slips through and closes the door. "Fuck!" you shout, running at the door he escaped through and trying the metal handle, only to find that it's stuck. You kick at it, furious, but only just manage to break the handle when the door behind you bursts open.

You have just enough time to turn around and dive behind the nearest wall support when the Talon agents open fire on you. One bullet catches your leg as you scramble to stand up, and you let out a pained scream in response, the sound echoing in the open space. When the bullets quiet, you can hear them approaching, formation the same exact scheme you lived and breathed when you were going to become one of them years ago. One agent moves to the corner to your right for backup fire, the same for the two your left, and the two others just behind the wall you were pressed against, while one more, the unlucky one, the brave one, the one who drew the shortest shortest straw, moves closer to you in order to draw you out.

If you had been their commander, you would have been impressed. Their boots were soft against the concrete, quiet, despite the weight of their gear, but they were still loud enough that you could tell the moment when the operative closest to you stepped into reaching distance.

Rolling off of the wall, you grab the operative's rifle and point it away as his shots ring out. Using leverage against him, you pull him close and empty your pistol into his temple. From there, you allow him to slump into your shoulder as you grab his rifle and slip it between the space of his arm and hip. Using his body as a shield, you shoot the two operatives who are now to your right, catching one in the head and the other in the neck, before you turn to the agents in front of you and shoot one in the head and his buddy in the leg. You watch him crumple to the ground, cursing, before you shoot him in the head.

The remaining agent hides behind a tall, wrapped stack of boxes, so you shoot at the boxes to draw him out and drop your meat shield, moving to reposition yourself. The agent shoots back, blindly, wildly, trying to keep cover by only pointing his weapon out. One bullet ricochets and grazes your arm, causing you to hiss, but you don't stop running because you need all the speed you can get. When you reach the wall adjacent to the boxes, you run up it, using your momentum to push off of the wall when you reach a certain height so that you land relatively even on the boxes.

You see the operative before he sees you, which suits you just fine, because you never did like looking in their faces when you did this, anyway.

Jumping down, you knock the rifle out of the operative's hands and pin him to the floor. He struggles, trying to kick and push you off of him, but you're no longer that girl stuck in the dark room back at the facility. You're free, you're stronger, and you're not dead. He grunts, twisting and shouting when you grab his head firmly between your hands and snap his neck with a clean and swift crackle.

You give yourself a few moments, still straddling the operative, before you decide to stand and maneuver yourself off his twisted body to survey the mess with a disappointed gaze.

If you were their commander, you would be pissed. Absentmindedly, you touch the warm, now healed wound on your arm where the bullet grazed you, and frown. You had to admit, you were always a little sloppy, but that was just careless. "Man," you sigh, looking around what can now be considered a morgue with even more dissatisfaction than before, "Did I lose my touch?"

When no one answers, a fact you're somewhat grateful for considering you are talking to a group of dead guys, you shrug and start ambling your way through the corpses like some sort of messed up iteration of hopscotch. "Sorry boys." you apologize halfheartedly. Stepping over a puddle of blood here and there, when you finally reach the door they had come through, you turn around to look over the massacre in full, your brows furrowed, "Lucky bastards."

Just as you're about to walk through the door, a gust of wind brushes past you knocking you back into the warehouse and onto your ass in a pool of blood.

"Son of a-"

A deep, rumbling voice begins to laugh from behind you, giving you pause. Looking over your shoulder, you see some sort of black mist gather at the center of the room, causing the hairs on the back of your neck stand on ends. A chill creeps over you and the blood beneath you is sticky and thick from being exposed to the air, so you kind of slide to the side and heft yourself up as you watch the form of a tall muscled man dressed in all black and a white mask stare down at you.

It takes you a moment, but you recognize him. Reaper. A shot of fear runs down your back, because you remember his record. He's a killer--a real salt of the earth, kick your teeth in and watch you choke on your own blood, kind of killer. Back at Talon, when he was at the base you were stationed at, you remember all the operatives talking about him in the mess hall before missions.

The stories they would tell, gossip, you assumed, because no one can take down a newly advanced Russian Mech single-handed, just like no one can really just disappear and reappear in a haze of smoke, but here he was, having done just that, and now you're starting to sweat because that first piece of gossip must have had some truth to it too. 

When he walks up to you, pulling out his shotguns from his coat, you realize that, oh, wow, he's _big_ \--a lot bigger up close, and then you realize he's pointing one of those shotguns at you, and they're huge, almost bigger than your thigh, and he's aiming it at you. 

**_BLAM!_**

You dodge, ducking to the side and flipping when he fires off another shot before you fall into a full on sprint. When your brain finally catches up with your body, you realize you just dodged death... and now you're wondering why the hell you did that?!

Why are you running? You wanted to die before, and now you have the chance to, at worst, _test_ Damiano's so-called immortality serum. But then Reaper's on you, having done that bullshit move that you didn't think was real, but now know for a fact it is, and is standing in front of you with his shotguns aimed at your face while you, not being able to stop your momentum, run at him.

And then, you do something you didn't think you could do: you move out of the way of his shotgun blasts, flip forward, knock his shotguns out of his hands and kick him in the goddamn face. Reaper stumbles back while you land on your feet some ways in front of him, breathing hard and eyes wide, because holy shit you did not just kick Reaper in the fucking face. No way.

When he looks up at you, it's as if you can feel how shocked and almost offended he is, but he recovers quickly and with a growl cracks the knuckles of his fists. Maybe now, you think, would be a good time to run. Turning heel, you feel the cold sweat of panic wash over you, and then you, once again, wonder why you don't just stop and let Reaper try to kill you. If he succeeds, everyone wins, if you don't, at least you'll have something to talk about when you go out drinking to cope with the stress that comes with being shot by Reaper.

And it would be easy just to let him shoot you, or hell, even let him punch you in the face with those meaty, spiked fists he's got, but you're scared, because now you're thinking what happens if he _does_ kill you. Would you even go up there were they say it's warm and sunny and where you get to meet all those dead people you love, or would you go down where they say it's also warm, but probably a lot less sunny, and instead of the people you love you'd get that jackass Damiano, when Talon does, eventually, get to him?

With all this thinking, you notice just a bit too late when Reaper materializes right in front of you and knocks you back with the bottom of his shotgun, sending you sliding halfway across the room where you slip on blood and land hard against a dead body, wind effectively knocked out of you. When you try to roll over, to get back on your feet, to  _do something_ , Reaper's there to kick you down, once more sending you across the room, although this time you're stopped by a cold, hard wall rather than a cushy, dead Talon agent. 

You wheeze, and you know he broke a rib or two, because you can feel it stabbing you in a place you're pretty sure shouldn't be stabbed. You try to get up, but only end up slipping, what with the blood covered all over you, and fall onto your back, sprawled out and waiting for the Reaper, both the down-home one and the Grim one, to finish you off.

And even though you can feel him standing above you, staring down at your broken and gore drenched soon-to-be corpse, Reaper waits until you crack one eye open and look at him before stomping down on your arm, breaking the bone there, and _twisting_ his foot into it until your silent scream cracks into a blood curdling screech that eventually devolves into quiet whimpers when he stops and points his shotgun at level with your face.

"Sweet dreams." he laughs, before all you see goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm really enjoying writing this so far, even though overwatch canon got me fucked up (especially with the info behind this 2edgy5me dude), but i'm powering through. just note that i'm fully expecting, in the very soon future, for overwatch canon to totally just destroy some aspects of this story (more specifically the stuff pertaining to talon that i had to make up), so when that does inevitably happen, just consider everything that occurs in this story my personal headcanon/AU.


	3. Empty Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, note the tags. This story features gore and death often.
> 
> Edited 05/21
> 
> edit 07/09: taking break, will be back (to update) earliest late july/early august <3

Unfortunately, for both parties, you don't die when Reaper shoots you in the face with his stupid huge shotgun. You do, however, lose all control of your body and its senses. And it's weird, because you feel the exact moment your brain shut down, when the gray matter that had once been trapped inside your skull splatters raw and disgustingly wet against the concrete while whatever made you you disconnected from your body to float aimlessly in absolute darkness. 

All of your senses--touch, taste, hearing, sight, smell--all of it is gone, but you know you're still alive, you _have_ to be alive, because you're still... sentient. You still have thoughts; you can remember, vividly, what the world looked like before you were shot in the goddamn face and thrown into this abyss. You still have memories, you just can't do anything with them. You don't have a face--a mouth, nose, or eyes. You don't have a body, at all. No limbs, bones, blood, nothing. All you know is that you exist, and because you exist, suspended in darkness without a body to feel with or a mouth to scream with, you feel, all at once, corporeal and incorporeal in a place you surely don't belong, but can't escape from, and you're absolutely fucking terrified.

This is your eternity. This. The darkness, the numb emptiness, the silence that doesn't even devolve into the piercing shriek that sometimes plagued your hearing when the world around you got too quiet, because there is no world around you. There is nothing. No light. No air. And you feel like you can't breathe, suffocating beneath the crushing weight of the void that is both surrounding you and not at the same time. Sporadically, between the anguished strings of horrified thoughts swirling chaotic in your panicked mind, you wonder if this is what being dead is like. Is this what you have to look forward to when your time is up?

Then you feel a jarring tug at a place you think is your left temple, and somehow that pull registers as pain in your fevered mind. Still, you don't shrink away from the feeling, instead, you grasp for it--fight to maintain it, even as the feeling becomes clearer and clearer and it begins to feel like the sore, raw, bruised feeling of a hammer viciously mashing against a slab of soft meat, but instead of just meat, it's your left temple, and then your right temple, and then your entire head as the pulse of an otherworldly headache builds up in your brain, inside your slowly healing skull. Your skull. Your brain. Your head. And then you're pulled out of the abyss and into a bright light as gelatin-like strings and fibers crisscross your vision until the light dims and refocuses to reveal the damp, darkness of the warehouse in surreal clarity. And all you can do is stare, mind still reeling from what you just went through, the oblivion you had been floating in all of a sudden feeling very fictitious and impossible, even though you know you were there, know what you went through, but you also know it doesn't feel real.

But, you're relieved, thankful, regardless of your confusion and the pain that scorches fresh and brutal along the parts of you that aren't quite healed all the way. You're thankful for the hurt, the strain of your jaw and the spidery webs of flesh that cling to it and pull it up and back in place. You're thankful for the lukewarm burn of blood and open soft tissue in your mouth and throat, the bone deep ache of your teeth rebuilding and your tongue filling in at the places it was torn through. You're thankful, because you can feel, can see, and breathe, just barely, but it's enough for you to be able to smell the cool grime of metal and the night air and you can hear the near silent, heavy sound that the leather of Reaper's cloak makes when it touches the ground as he kneels to observe the dead body of one of the agents you killed before he showed up. 

And you know you should be scared or at the very least apprehensive of Reaper considering he laughed in your face before shooting it, but the fact that he's here grounds you to the idea that you're alive, a fact that makes you feel a mixture of guilt and contentedness that settles heavy like a stone in your gut. Instead of dwelling on that thought, you distract yourself with watching Reaper as he moves from agent to agent before finally making a line towards the door.

You tense, but you don't think he notices you, so you keep quiet as best you can, biting and clenching against the uncontrollable pained twitches of your body as the skin of your neck and jawline mold with muscle and fat that you're so distinctly aware of and focused on keeping silent that when the broken, ground, mangled mess of your arm starts pulling together, you nearly slip up and release a shriek of pain from between the strained press of your lips just as Reaper crosses through the threshold of the door in a whirlwind of dark mist.

You blink, keeping still for a beat longer,--just in case he comes back, just in case he notices you and tries again--before you finally allow yourself to breathe. Your chest heaves for much needed air, even though you can now smell the beginnings of the sweet sick rot coming from the festering dead around you. Still, you continue to pant, sucking in breath after breath, and whimpering just a touch too loud when the smaller bones of your shattered arm are pulled into place with the larger ones and healed together, reminding you of glue.

Super glue. And you almost chuckle, because it's morbid, and you don't really know what lets your body heal like this, but damn if it isn't useful. You lay on the ground for a few moments more, allowing the warmth to abate from your skin before you gradually sit up and stand. Despite the initial shakiness of your knees and the slight vertigo that dizzies you before subsiding, you feel pretty good. Nothing breaks, nothing hurts, and, if anything, you feel more energized and healthy than you did before that masked dickhead shot you in the face.

Still, you'd rather not chance another encounter and put a quickness in your step. You walk past the bodies and toward the door opposite of where Reaper had left. Considering he had just killed you, you figured it was best to keep your distance and use the exit Damiano went through when he left you in the warehouse. A brief shock of anger bristles you at the thought of that disgusting monster of a "doctor" and the injustice of being robbed the chance of finally killing him.

As you leave the warehouse, hooking your finger through a metal divot where the door handle had once been and pulling it open to reveal a short hallway, you remind yourself of Mina and Aasim, and feel an ache weigh heavy at the back of your throat.

You didn't get the chance to properly mourn for them. It had all been too quick, the time had melded incoherently by the fear and finally acceptance of your own death that you had been too focused on dying to even consider mourning for them. But now, with the knowledge of your extended, if not indefinite, life span, and the quiet serenity of these few steps to what appears to be the exiting door of the storage facility, you can feel the pangs of remorse and sorrow gnaw at the back of your mind. Tears, salty and wet, blur your vision, so you wipe them away with the gritty underside of your arm.

_Later._ You will mourn for them later when you've put enough distance between yourself and where ever you're at now, and, even though it will take some time, you'll mourn for them after you kill Damiano, after you destroy Talon, and only when you're in an place where you can devote your attention to remembering their legacies and healing from torment that you were put through. _Later,_ you think, again, _I promise._

 

-

 

When you finally step outside of the of the warehouse, you observe your environment cautiously. In the distance, you can see that dawn is beginning to break, light peering through the dense forest just a few feet from where you are now. Picking a random direction, you silently cross through deep green just as an unmarked Talon Evac copter whirls overhead to land presumably somewhere on the other side of the warehouse, not that you stick around long enough to find out. Once you're far enough away that you don't think your foot falls will be heard, you break into a sprint, jumping over fallen tree stumps and various foliage as you try to make it as deep into the forest as possible before Talon inevitably finds themselves a corpse short.

You can't be anymore than a mile from warehouse when you hear the steady approaching whirl of the copter somewhere behind you. And you're not foolish enough to hope that they won't find you, but that doesn't mean you'll make it easy for them. Ducking into the under brush of a small dirt cliff, you take a few moments to observe your surroundings and listen closely for the chatter of the helicopter.

Thankfully, it doesn't seem to be directly above you, probably some ways behind and to your right, but still too close for you to feel safe hiding where you're at. Looking around, you weigh your options. To your right, is forest, but that's also where Talon will be searching for you hardest. To your left, you spot a shallow cave, hidden behind trees and bushes, and past that what appears to be a clearing devoid of trees or any other sort of cover you could take. From somewhere behind you, birds flutter and cry catching your attention briefly before you're brought back to your present dilemma. Should you take the way to the left or should you just chance it and run as fast as you can deeper into the forest to your right, and hope you don't get caught? You don't have much time to dwell, so you pick the shallow cave, deciding that even if they do somehow spot you, at least you'll have cover if they decide to shoot at you.

Taking a deep breath, you gather your thoughts and full on sprint to the cave. You're half way there and thinking that you just might allude the world's shittiest terrorist organization, when you feel the rush of cold air coming in from your side. You have just enough time to look as Reaper emerges from the shadows with his shotguns raised to your face before he shoots you. Again.

You can't even scream as you fall to the ground since most of your face is mangled and raw, but not as destroyed as it had been before at close range. You go blind even though you caught most of the dispersed rounds with your mouth, but otherwise, your brain is fine and the pain is, as always, immeasurably the worst. When your eyes focus, you see Reaper walking towards you, hands still on his shotguns as he approaches and you wonder if that's just his way of saying "hi" and this whole exchange is really just a big misunderstanding. But the way he walks, posture straight and loose, but _ready_  for whatever you do next makes you reevaluate. 

If Reaper was anyone else, you would have thought he was scared of you based on how steady and almost unsure he was in the way he approached. But, you know he can't be scared of you considering this is the second time he shot you, and now that he's in front of you, he puts his guns away, kneels down and watches as fresh sinew and tissue clumps itself back together. You gurgle, frowning as, like a gentleman, he waits until your face finishes making itself before he reaches down. He grabs your throat in his massive hands and pulls you up until your faces are level, forcing your torso to twist uncomfortably in order to meet his gaze. You grasp his forearms to steady yourself, trying to alleviate the pain in your spine from the way you're half-laying down, and manage to just barely shift positions so that you're on your knees as Reaper continues to just stare at you.

A few moments pass in utter silence, before Reaper tightens his grip on your throat and hoists you up, pushing you against the trunk of a nearby tree where your feet dangle from the ground and his other hand comes up to your shoulder to stop your sudden wild thrashing. When it becomes clear you won't be going anywhere soon, and your vision starts blurring, Reaper leans towards you and you think you can make out the red of his eyes before he finally breaks the quiet, "What are you?" he asks, voice gruff and strangely husky, and you want to say something smart to convey just how stupid his question is considering he has you by your throat, making nearly all of your newly healed forms of communication extremely difficult, so instead, you swirl up a mixture of stringy saliva and blood in your mouth and spit it at his dumb, stupid masked face.

Without letting go of your throat, Reaper removes his other hand from you, wipes your disgusting loogie off of his mask, and tilts his head at you. You don't know if he's grinning or frowning at you underneath his mask--assuming he has a face to grin or frown with--, but your thoughts are cut short when he pulls out one of his shotguns and presses the end of the double barrels up against your gut.

You make a choked sound which probably didn't sound like much to him, but to you meant, _"_ _Don't you dare you fucking asshole."_  But of course, he does anyway.

_**BLAM!**_

Instant, searing hot pain, and you actually feel your legs go dead, because you're pretty sure he shot right through to your spinal cord. Guts and the like slip through your skin, even as your body tries to mend itself, flesh gripping and pulling as your intestines are slowly pulled back inside of you to slide between muscle and flesh, and you wonder how you haven't passed out yet, because all you can feel is bone aching pain as you grip Reaper's shoulders for support, your nails digging into the rich leather of his cloak, and you hope to god you tear through it because this asshole not only curb stomped you, he shot you in the fucking face, _twice_ , and then when that didn't work, shot you, point blank, in the stomach, of all places, for shits and giggles.

Of course, instead of dying, you heal as you did before. Skin melding, muscles stitching together, and when it's all said and done and your pieces are back where they should be, you feel the edges of your consciousness ebb and it kind of makes you mad. Why couldn't you have passed out during the excruciating pain part of this exchange? Why do you have to pass out, now?

But, you don't exactly have a choice seeing as how Reaper still hasn't let go of the column of your neck to the point you can hear your ears pop and the slowing of your heartbeat.

Even as light gives way to dark, and your limbs fall limp against your body, you manage one last hate filled glare mostly at him, but also because of the shitty comedic predicament you find yourself in: when even the fucking Reaper can't kill you, you know you can't die. So, you can fully expect to find yourself alive and probably unwell within the next however many minutes or hours it takes until you finally wake up in another Talon facility being tested on for who knows what reason, missing Aasim and Mina and wanting to die.

When you wake up, you're in a cold, dark place.


End file.
